


Not months but moments

by sublightsleeper



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 22:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17088917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublightsleeper/pseuds/sublightsleeper
Summary: Tony smooths the pads of his fingers across the metal table. If he closes his eyes, he can still picture Howard’s lab. The pictures of Cap on the wall, grainy and yellowed age and cigarette smoke. The tools left in neat rows on the workbench. The wobbling, off balance stool that his old man loved better than any other chair in the house.





	Not months but moments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cutebutpsyco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutebutpsyco/gifts).



> This is a Marvel Holiday Swap for cutebutpsyco, I hope you like it and happy holidays!

“Believe it or not, I have a thing about idle hands.” 

Beside him, Stephen’s scoff is somewhere between a coughing breath and laughter. Tony doesn’t let it stop him. He’s rehearsed this speech too many times to give in and go off script. Because everyone knew what happened when Tony went off script. (I am Iron Man. Yikes.)

“So when I was a kid, I used to sneak down into my old man’s workshop while he and my mom were at whatever gala or charity event du jour was happening. But I couldn’t mess with anything flammable, or too breakable. So I started collecting scraps.” 

Tony smooths the pads of his fingers across the metal table. If he closes his eyes, he can still picture Howard’s lab. The pictures of Cap on the wall, grainy and yellowed age and cigarette smoke. The tools left in neat rows on the workbench. The wobbling, off balance stool that his old man loved better than any other chair in the house. 

“And one day, my old man caught me scavenging. I figure this is it. Goodbye cruel world, six years old and my life is flashing before my eyes.” Stephen has turned to rest his hip against the table, but he’s not forcing eye contact. Tony is more grateful for that than he’s going to admit. “But he just took me aside. Got me an old set of tools from the back of his toolbox, and set me up my own little spot on the bench. I felt like the luckiest kid in the world.”

Of course, that feeling wouldn’t last. Tony would grow up to resent his father for all his harsh worldviews, for him shoving Tony into adulthood with both hands. But at six years old, with his own stool and his own set of wrenches, Tony felt like nothing in the world could be better than working with his dad. 

“He showed me what his dad taught him how to do when he was a kid. My grandpa, he died before I was ever born, he was a watchmaker. One of those old school types, fresh off the boat from Italy, wanting to keep the old world a part of his new world. So he taught Howard how to make clockwork toys. 

They were expensive, back then. Lots of moving parts when most kids had wooden trucks and handmade dolls. My old man, he showed me this tin soldier. He had a wind up rig in his back, and would march right across the table. I was awestruck. I wanted to make my own. So Howard taught me the basics, and he turned me loose.”

Finally, Tony lifts his gaze from the table to find Stephen watching him. There was always something inscrutable in those shifting eyes, something Tony couldn’t put his finger on. But there was a softness there now that made Tony’s chest feel tight with fondness. It wasn’t often you met a guy who believed in you enough to leave the fate of the universe in your hands. Even less likely that the guy actually likes you. 

“I still do it, sometimes. I made a couple of pieces in the cave, little soldiers from missile casings, so I could do something with my hands while we waited for things to render. I always told Yinsen that I’d make better ones for his kids…”

Tony trails off, but after a moment he pulls himself out of the past, away from the oppressive heat and the guilt that still sits in his bones like stone. 

“Anyway.” He clicks his tongue, stepping off of a wobbling stool to shove a little scrap metal butterfly into Stephen’s hands. When wound, the wings would beat inwards and outwards, and the antenna would wiggle. Not his best work, or his most intricate. It sure as hell wasn’t nanite technology. But there was something more to it. A truth. 

He carries Strange with him, always. Especially when it’s dark and quiet, and Tony needs something to keep his hands and his head busy. Those are the moments his mind always shifts to the sorcerer cradling the clockwork butterfly in his palms like it might take flight at any moment. 

“Merry Christmas, Stephen.”


End file.
